The New Moon with the Old (22 page)

Before long, Clare was sent for. She followed the night nurse into an over-warm, closely curtained bedroom where the ornate French furniture seemed unsuitable for a heavy old man. Mr Rowley was sitting up in bed in a black bed-jacket of curious shape which managed to look both Chinese and military. Above its high collar, his dark skin looked darker than ever against the white pillow, his face more lined and ravaged. He had taken his spectacles off and Clare doubted if he could see at all, but his hooded eyes never looked sightless. Indeed, sometimes they flickered with a surprising liveliness.

She had brought the evening paper with her. She asked if she should read it to him.

But Mr Rowley did not want to be read to. He wanted to talk – or rather, to listen. Gently but inexorably he extracted information about herself and her family; no detail seemed too small to interest him. She had to describe every room in Dome House, the garden, the village, the surrounding country. She guessed that he was trying to enter her world as an escape from his own and she felt sympathetic, but after an hour or so she found it very hard to go on. She seldom talked much (oh, for Merry’s volubility!) and she had for some time been so dissatisfied with her daily life that she took no pleasure in describing it. But she persevered … By eleven o’clock she was conducting Mr Rowley through her schooldays. Then, to her relief, Nurse Brown arrived to reinforce the night nurse who had come in several times and been waved away. Mr Rowley must go to sleep. He submitted, and thanked Clare for her company.

‘You shall have her back tomorrow,’ Nurse Brown assured him, whisking her out of the room.

Clare was now yawning uncontrollably.

Nurse Brown told her she could sleep late. ‘Mr Rowley won’t need you before eleven o’clock. You can have your breakfast in bed – just ring for the floor waiter. Better take some half-crowns out of the Beggar’s Bowl so you can tip; don’t go handing out your own money. Got the key of your room, have you? Well, good night, dear. And thank you.’

Clare, making her way along the silent corridor, felt triumphant. It was amazing to think she would actually have earned money by just talking. Not that it hadn’t been exhausting; seldom had she longed for sleep as she longed for it now. She let herself into her beautiful room and got ready for bed as quickly as possible. She was about to turn out all the lights except her bedside lamp when every light in the room went out of its own accord.

The darkness was intense for the heavy curtains excluded every glimmer from the street lamps outside. She groped her way to the door onto the corridor and opened it. There was nothing wrong with the corridor lights and as they shone into her little entrance hall she noticed a small wooden fuse box. That would be the source of the trouble. Well, nothing could be done about it tonight. She closed the door and felt her way to the bed. The smooth linen sheets were as cold as a waterfall but wonderfully luxurious, and almost as she slid between them she slid into sleep.

The dream, she afterwards remembered, seemed to go on and on, and throughout its long length she suspected it was a dream. But she could not wake and her efforts to do so increased her distress. Although the memory of that distress remained with her for days she could never recall what the dream itself had been about, except for its culmination, when she saw Mr Rowley’s ravaged face, brilliantly lit, close to her own. Then the brilliance was replaced by a tiny flame, flickering in darkness – but now she was awake! Desperately she tried to believe she was still dreaming but it was no use. This was reality, a reality far worse than her nightmare. The tiny flame came from a cigarette lighter, beyond which was Mr Rowley’s face. He had followed her here. The tiny flame went out and from the total darkness came a voice that certainly wasn’t Mr Rowley’s.

‘For God’s sake don’t scream. I’m not going to hurt you. What are you doing in my bed? Damn this lighter.’

Again the flame sprang into life. Clare, always a quick waker, was now in full possession of her senses and she saw at once that the man by the bed, though like Mr Rowley, was younger. He was, however, still pretty old – too old, she’d have said, to be anyone’s grandson, but Mr Rowley’s grandson he must be, come back from abroad. She felt furious with him but she did not feel frightened – perhaps because she was so relieved that he wasn’t his grandfather.

‘I have no intention of screaming,’ she said haughtily. ‘And I’ve every right to be here. I’m employed by Mr Rowley. You, I suppose, are Mr Charles. I’m sorry no one warned you I was in your room but it’s not my fault. Now please go away.’

A snort came from the face beyond the flickering flame. ‘Very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’

She thought this abominably rude. Glaring, she spoke with cold indignation. ‘Go away
at once
– unless you want me to ring for help.’

‘You don’t
need
help. Oh, blast!’ Again the lighter had gone out.

She heard him stumble over something and hoped he was leaving, but he had only gone to the window to draw back the curtains. A moment later she saw him in the light from the street lamps. Apart from being tall, dark, heavily built and heavily featured, he was less like Mr Rowley than she had thought – ugly in his own right she decided, greatly disliking the bags under his eyes. She took him to be quite fifty.

He turned to her. ‘Listen, please – just for a minute.’

She had sat up while he was moving to the window. Now, conscious of the thinness of her nightgown, she clasped herself.

‘Here, put this round you.’ He picked up her cloak from a chair and tossed it to her, then sank into the chair. ‘I really am very sorry I burst in on you. It must have been frightening. Not that you seemed frightened.’

‘Of course I was – until I saw it was you.’

‘What? Well, I’m glad I look so innocuous.’

She wasn’t going to explain. Instead, she said severely:

‘Why didn’t you let someone know you were coming back?’

‘I didn’t know it myself less than half an hour ago. It was a sudden emergency.’

‘But if you were abroad—’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Well, Nurse Brown thinks you were.’

‘She thinks no such thing. We telephone each other almost every day. It’s just that my grandfather has to believe I’m abroad. Do you understand?’

‘No,’ said Clare.

‘Well, you needn’t. All I ask is that you won’t tell him you’ve seen me – and that you’ll let me sit here quietly till morning.’

She said indignantly, ‘Of course you can’t. You’ll have to ask for another bedroom.’

‘If I go downstairs and say I found you in my bed it’ll be all over the hotel by tomorrow. Do you like the idea?’

‘I like it better than having you here. Besides, it’s bound to be known. Somebody must have seen you come in. Isn’t there a night porter?’

‘There is, but he wasn’t around. I had my key and simply walked upstairs. Anyway, I don’t want the trouble of getting another room – if there is one; the hotel’s usually full. I’m all in, and I’ve a very important day ahead of me.’ He yawned. ‘You can see I’m half asleep already. Do let me rest. I’ll slip down the back stairs as soon as it’s light.’

She found the yawn infectious and failed to stifle one of her own. ‘But it won’t be light for hours and hours.’

‘Of course it will.’ He lit his cigarette lighter again and looked at his wristwatch. ‘It’s six-fifteen already.’

‘Goodness! I thought it was the middle of the night.’

‘Well, it isn’t. Now if you ask me, you’re as sleepy as I am. Just take a little nap – and when you wake up I shall be gone. And if you’re a wise girl, you’ll tell no one I’ve been here.’

‘I won’t tell Mr Rowley. But I must tell Nurse Brown.’

‘I wouldn’t. It’s most unfair but I think she might count it against you. She can’t know you very well yet and she knows me rather too well. Some of my shocking character might … well, brush off on you. Still, please yourself.’

Clare felt obscurely blackmailed.
Would
Nurse Brown count it against her?

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Charles. ‘You just think things over quietly. And I promise you no harm will come of it – if you play it my way.’ He pulled up the dressing-table stool and put his feet on it.

She was still far from sure she ought to let him stay – but how could she get rid of him, short of ringing for help and creating a scene? And if the night was nearly over …

A loud snore from Mr Charles decided her. She would let this sleeping dog lie till daylight – and dress in the bathroom before waking him. Then, if he refused to go, she could go herself. She slid down in the bed, longing for sleep but sure that the snoring would keep her awake. How did the wives of snoring husbands ever get to sleep? She had never before listened to a man snoring, a very strange noise indeed …

She was suddenly aware that she had dropped off – but not for long; it was still night. The snoring had stopped. She looked towards the armchair, which was silhouetted against the window. Surely … yes: the chair was now empty. Where, then, was Mr Charles?

The next instant, she knew. He was lying beside her, jacket off, sleeping most peacefully. The quilt was over both of them and, though he lay on the blankets and she between the sheets, they looked exactly as if they were in bed together. Barely had she taken this in when a distant clock began to chime. She counted the strokes: unmistakably, five. Then he had lied to her about the time! She had no idea when he had arrived – or how long he had been beside her.

Furious, she sat up intending to shake him. Then her rage was replaced by caution. Judging by some of her favourite novels, men were apt to find angry women provocative – and he had admitted to a shocking character. She must be icily calm, and she must still wait for daylight. On no account must she fall asleep again; but she would not, as long as she remained sitting upright.

Her cloak had slithered to the floor but she was not cold – she was far too … exhilarated. How extraordinary! And it was even more extraordinary that she had never, once she’d escaped from the nightmare, felt frightened. She was not introspective, finding attempts to understand herself both boring and baffling; indeed, she could never concentrate on them. But for once she was interested in her own reactions. He had said she was sure of herself, and that was exactly how she felt. Why? When as a rule she was so drearily tentative, so conscious of inferiority?

But as usual, her thoughts slid away from herself and she was soon reviewing the whole incident impersonally and objectively. London, dead of night, the great hotel, silent corridors, closed doors, a sleeping girl suddeuly awakened: it was exciting enough to be in a book – and it
reminded
her of some book. The pitch-dark room … yes, in
The Three Musketeers
, when D’Artagnan passes himself off as Milady’s lover. ‘At Night all Cats are Grey’ – fascinating title of a fascinating, if unconvincing chapter; surely his voice would have given him away? Not for the first time Clare considered the matter very thoroughly, living so intensely in Milady’s dark bedroom that she only returned to her own when the darkness was yielding to dawn. Her complete absorption had kept her very still; back in the present she found it hard not to fidget. And it was now light enough to get up.

But first she peered closely at Mr Charles. Had she
overestimated
his age? Yes, he might not be more than forty-five. But she hadn’t overestimated his ugliness … those bags under his eyes, that heavy nose, the deep lines from the nose to the mouth – which wasn’t too bad and he slept with it firmly closed, even though he was lying on his back. No doubt those snores had been histrionic – what a trick to play on her! But she no longer felt furious; merely elated, faintly amused and – most astonishing of all – just a little sorry for
him. Lost in deep sleep he looked so … helpless. But she told herself briskly that he wouldn’t look it once he awoke.

Cautiously she slid out of bed and picked up her cloak. He stirred slightly. She was instantly still but it was too late; the next second, he had opened his eyes. She hardly had time to fling the cloak around her before he was saying, ‘Hey, wait, you silly girl! What’s the point of rushing out, now?’

‘I’m not rushing out,’ she told him. ‘It’s just that I have to use this cloak as a dressing-gown. I forgot mine.’

‘There’s one of mine here you’re welcome to – though of course it’ll swamp you. Good gracious!’ Fully awake now, he gave her a long look. ‘No wonder you were so sure of yourself.’

After a blank instant, she guessed that he meant she was pretty. Ignoring both his speech and his eyes, she said coldly, ‘What time was it really, when you arrived?’

He grinned. ‘Around two-thirty. Now don’t look so indignant. This is my room – and I was dead beat. And you weren’t in the least afraid of me. If you had been, you wouldn’t have gone to sleep.’

‘I happened to be dead beat too,’ said Clare.

‘Poor child! You’re much younger than I realized. My grandfather’s readers are usually older, more experienced and a great deal more friendly.’ He threw back the quilt and got up.

‘Please go now,’ said Clare.

‘I will as soon as I’ve had a bath and a shave. All right?’

‘Certainly not! Get out!’ She had a strong desire to hit him. He looked at her admiringly. ‘I’ve always had a special fondness for angry kittens. Now listen: I
must
freshen up before I go out. Surely I’ve made it clear that I mean you no harm? Why not co-operate a bit? Here’s an idea: you order a large breakfast while I bath and shave – and then we’ll share it.’

‘You’re not going to bath and shave.’

‘Well, come in and stop me,’ said Mr Charles. ‘I’ll leave the door open.’

She followed him across the entrance hall and slammed the bathroom door on him, then went back to the bedroom. Infuriating man! Such arrogance! But somehow … as well as wanting to hit him, she wanted to laugh.

She went to the dressing-table and had a good look at herself. As a rule she thought her prettiness insipid and old fashioned. This morning she felt fairly pleased with her face – well, considering it was entirely devoid of make-up. Should she put on powder and lipstick? She decided it would be unwise to pay him any such compliment and merely combed her hair; then sat down and waited.

He was back sooner than she expected, looking fresher if no less ugly.

‘What, no breakfast? Well, my hopes weren’t exactly high. I
could
just ring for the waiter and order it myself.’

She surveyed him calmly. ‘And I
could
tell your grandfather you’ve been here.’

‘What a despicable threat!’ He sounded shocked. ‘But you win, of course. It’s rather heartbreaking that anyone so young should be so unscrupulous. Do you know the corners of your mouth are twitching? Is it a nervous trick or an incipient sense of humour? Ah, that’s better! What nice white teeth!’

She switched off her smile but found herself saying, ‘Perhaps I might order you some breakfast – if you hide in the bathroom while the waiter brings it in.’

He shook his head. ‘Here’s where my true nobility comes out. It’s time I went, if I’m to avoid being seen. I’d rather go starving into the storm than blemish your spotless reputation.’ He turned up the collar of his jacket.

‘The sun’s shining,’ said Clare.

‘Is it? My mistake. Well, come and see me off. You’d better make sure there’s no one in the corridor.’

They went into the entrance hall, where she opened the door and looked out, then turned and nodded to him.

‘All clear? Dear me, that is a comic cloak – suggests some kind of holy order. Don’t forget you can use my
dressing-gown
. Tell me, are you an actress?’

‘Me? No. Do I look like one?’ The idea pleased her.

‘Frankly, no. It was just that I shouldn’t have thought any girl who wasn’t
acting
innocence could look quite as innocent as you do – not in these days.’ He smiled down on her. ‘Are you fooling me?’

‘Well, I’d hardly tell you if I were,’ said Clare, trying now to look enigmatic. She considered it shaming for a girl of twenty-one to be so abysmally innocent as she was.

‘Excellent answer to an idiotic question,’ said Mr Charles. ‘Perhaps I will have some breakfast.’

‘No, you won’t, not now,’ said Clare. ‘But wait a second. I must take another look out.’

‘Wise girl. You’re obviously an old hand at this kind of thing.’

The corridor was still empty. ‘Now go at once,’ she told him sternly. ‘Don’t start another conversation.’

‘
Of course
you’re not an actress. You were born to be a schoolmistress.’

‘Just
go
.’ She held the door open for him.

He made a sudden dive and kissed her on the top of her head, which came well below his chin, then sprinted for the door leading to the back stairs. Reaching it, he looked back and smiled. She glared indignantly. He turned down the corners of his mouth lugubriously, then hurried down the stairs.

She closed her door and, for no reason she could possibly have explained, put the palm of her hand on the top of her head.